


unfold me

by humanveil



Category: Mr. Robot (TV)
Genre: Asexual Elliot Alderson, Crying, Hurt/Comfort, M/M, Non-Sexual Intimacy, Season/Series 03
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-10-27
Updated: 2017-10-27
Packaged: 2019-01-23 11:19:42
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 865
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/12506188
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/humanveil/pseuds/humanveil
Summary: Tyrell starts with his fingertips. His touch is soft, delicate—the pressure feather light. He’s worried, almost, that going too fast will scare Elliot. That too much at once will make him pull away, recoil, retreat.





	unfold me

**Author's Note:**

> episode three reignited some buried tryelliot feelings, so here’s ~nine hundred words of soft nothing. set sometime during stage two.

Elliot’s body radiates heat.

Tyrell can feel it even when they’re not touching. It warms the sheets, warms his body when they lie side to side.

He can feel it, now, with his hand hovering above Elliot’s arm. It ghosts over his palm, warm and inviting. He aches to touch, to reach out and take, but he knows he can’t. Knows Elliot wouldn’t like it.

He starts with his fingertips. His touch is soft, delicate—the pressure feather light. He’s worried, almost, that going too fast will scare Elliot. That too much at once will make him pull away, recoil, retreat.

It wouldn’t be the first time.

The pads of his fingers graze the spot beneath Elliot’s elbow, and Tyrell watches, waits for a reaction. The lighting in their new den is low—especially now, when sky outside is pitch black, when the only hint of light is the shine of the streetlights, is the white–yellow glow of a computer screen, the monitor resting only meters away.

Still, he can see Elliot swallow, can see the gentle shimmer to his eyes. He doesn’t flinch, and Tyrell considers it an achievement.

He brings his fingers up, over the flesh of Elliot’s upper arm. The sleeves of his nightshirt are short, and Tyrell almost makes it to the curve of his shoulder before he brings it back down again—past the elbow, over the edge of his forearm, up to where his hands rest; one tucked beneath his pillow and one up above. Tyrell brings his fingertips to the top of his hand, drags them over the knuckle, almost to the nail, and then drags them back—down the forearm, up the elbow, back to his shoulder.

Elliot exhales; soft, content, perhaps a little shaky. Tyrell smiles, the act barely a twitch of his lips, and adds to his touch. He uses his palm now, too—follows his previous motions with the added pressure. Elliot isn’t looking at him, but he isn’t turned away, either.

He continues on, going further when he knows Elliot’s comfortable with it. Elliot’s arm turns to his shoulders, his back, his waist. Tyrell draws against the thin cotton of Elliot’s shirt—rubs soothing circles against his body and watches the way Elliot’s eyes flutter, the way his eyelashes fan across the dip of his cheeks.

He inches forward before his can stop himself. The sheets rustle with his movement, the blanket falling further down their legs. Their torsos are closer, now—their body heat mixing together.

“Okay?” Tyrell’s voice is a whisper—the kind nights like these calls for. He tilts his head, hand back to hovering over Elliot’s shoulder, and waits for an answer.

Elliot nods, his head moving across the surface of his pillow, and Tyrell goes back to touching him. He loves doing this, even if Elliot doesn’t always remember. It makes him happy, to watch Elliot slowly unfold, to see him relax, to shower him in affection.

It’s tricky, sometimes. Elliot has never been one to enjoy being touched, whatever the intent. It’s still something Tyrell is growing accustomed to.

He thinks the touching will help, though. The loneliness, the stress, the draining nature of their task—it’s a recipe for disaster. They’re all at risk, but Elliot seems particularly worn out, these days, and if Tyrell can help, well. He’ll do everything he can.

Their breathing is synchronised, now—shallow and calm. It’s an improvement, Tyrell thinks. He’s seen Elliot breathe a lot of different ways—has seen him hyperventilate, has seen the choked, gasping breathes of tears, of frustration, of desperation—and this is always so much better. Seeing him calm, seeing him _happy._

Tyrell only wants Elliot to be happy.

Another rustle sounds, only this time it’s Elliot who’s moved forward. Tyrell barely breathes when the space between them diminishes, when Elliot lets his forehead drop to Tyrell’s shoulder, when his warm breath ghosts over Tyrell’s skin, when it sends a tingly sensation all through his body. It’s not a graceful movement, it’s awkward, jerky—the way Elliot’s actions always are when they do this—but Tyrell cherishes it.

He curls his arm around Elliot’s waist, pulls him even closer. His hold is tight— _secure_ —and Tyrell never wants to let go. He likes it here, like this. Likes it when it’s just the two of them, just him and _Elliot_.

Elliot’s arm is trapped between them, his palm pressed to Tyrell’s torso, just below his heart. Tyrell’s surprised when he feels Elliot’s fingers curl in the fabric of his shirt, when he can feel the material twist tight around him, though he’s less surprised when the sniffling starts, when it sounds like Elliot might be crying, or trying not to cry.

He runs his hand back up Elliot’s spine, splays his fingers out over the back of Elliot’s head, and tips his own head forward. He shushes Elliot softly, rocks the bed gently—does everything he can to comfort the other man.

It’s only later—when Elliot’s breathing has evened out, when their den is filled with soft snores, when Elliot’s body is limp with sleep—that Tyrell allows himself to drift off.  


End file.
